It's Not A Difficult Question
by Lit My Cig With Your Pain
Summary: Just a short, silly thing. There's really no point to it, except to be as fluffy as humanly possible. Rated K.


**These characters belong to ACD, the BBC, Moffatt and Gatiss, not me.**

Sherlock Holmes is not an easy man to love.

He knows this with the force of a thousand of his father's glance-overs. He knows it because his roommate for his first year at uni transferred schools after two weeks. Those two weeks had been full of hostile silences, sharp snaps at each other, and one spectacular row over personal space.

He knows it because he watches; it is his job, his life's work, to watch and observe, and he sees how people categorize him. They look and judge and think, "Too difficult. Too much work, too much effort." He slides off their radars, people shunting him off left and right, trusting vaguely that someone else will pick up the gauntlet, take up the challenge of loving him.

No one does.

It stops bothering him eventually.

That is, until John Watson limps into his life.

John does the impossible. John walks in, his view of Sherlock untainted by anyone else, and pronounces Sherlock's deductions "amazing", "extraordinary", "fantastic", "brilliant." He runs with Sherlock and laughs with him and kills a man for him. Sherlock is absolutely flabbergasted by this unexpected turn of events. As the months wear on and John does not leave (in fact John settles in and becomes as much a part of Baker Street as the fireplace), Sherlock begins to wonder if he's found someone, finally, who can take up the challenge.

He peers curiously at John from his chair, his knees tucked tightly into his chest, five months after they meet and two months after the pool (which, by unspoken agreement, they do not talk about, _ever_). John is reading the comments on Sherlock's website and laughing quietly.

"There is some absolute gold in these forums," he says out loud, half to himself. He remains oblivious to Sherlock's staring, although that might be just out of habit by now; Sherlock does an awful lot of staring and thinking.

"John?"

"Hmm." John doesn't turn away from the computer screen, only superficially hearing Sherlock's voice.

"John."

"What?"

"Do you love me?"

That gets John's attention. His head whirls on its axis, and Sherlock hears something crack in John's neck.

"I beg your pardon?" John asks, supremely confused.

"It's not a difficult question."

John embarrassment shows in the dull flush of colour crawling up his cheeks. "Um. Well, you know, I… I suppose… I suppose I guess I do butonlyinafriendway, mind you, so don't get any ideas." John shifts in his chair as though the seat has suddenly become pinecone-sharp.

Sherlock isn't prepared for the sheer volume of emotion that hits him as John's words gather and scatter and recollect again in his mind. No matter how many ways he twists and turns the words, John still loves him. He feels that his world has flipped itself inside out, violently reversed its polarity without bothering to warn him. John frowns, concerned now rather than embarrassed.

"Something wrong?" he asks.

Sherlock knows if he tried to speak his voice would come out like a skipping record, so he just shakes his head. He can't comprehend this, can't figure it out, why someone like John would bother with him, why John undoubtedly used up most of his energy and patience putting in the effort of loving him. He shakes his head again, unfolding his legs and standing so that John can't see his face, which is suddenly streaked with unbidden tears. He hasn't cried since he was five. He swipes angrily at his cheeks, furious with himself for letting his control slip away for something so trivial, something so _stupid_—

"Sherlock?"

He can no longer stand to be away from John. Blurrily, he catches a quick glimpse of John's astonished expression as Sherlock takes three long, quick strides across the room and throws his arms around John's neck. A small, shocked "Oof!" is knocked out of John, but gradually he raises his arms and hugs Sherlock, patting his back comfortingly. "That's all right," he murmurs, rubbing between Sherlock's shoulder blades. "I take it this means you reciprocate?"

Sherlock huffs out a noise, half-sob-half-scoff, but John feels him nodding against his cheek.

Sherlock knows he is not an easy man to love. So when he finds someone for whom it seems almost effortless, he holds onto them as hard as he can.


End file.
